


Heady Blooms

by TheSeventhSister



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, Depression, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Suicidal Thoughts, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2017-12-15 18:54:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/852898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSeventhSister/pseuds/TheSeventhSister
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean Prouvaire angst drabble. Triggers for depression and suicide.</p>
<p>“I hate myself” whispered Jehan. The words curled out of his mouth with like opium smoke. He could see them drifting in front of him in the darkness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heady Blooms

**Author's Note:**

> This one's a bit of a down and out drabble so steer clear if you trigger from the topics I've mentioned. Other than that I hope you enjoy!

“I hate myself” whispered Jehan. The words curled out of his mouth with like opium smoke. He could see them drifting in front of him in the darkness. 

He felt the body next to him shift in her sleep; another one-night conquest in the name of romance that wasn’t going to lead anywhere. It occurred to him that the perpetual sense of romantic addiction he created for himself may be nothing more than a distraction from how desperate his life had become. His poetry remained unpublished, his friends were buried in their own causes and he was left to his own devices.

This was a dangerous thing.

Jean Prouvaire being left to his own devices meant an ever growing collection of depressive and suicidal thoughts. It was one of the reasons he felt so affiliated with flowers. Flower bloom for a short, golden time and then wither and die. He had bloomed too early and now his withering was being prolonged.

“I love you” he had mumbled into her ear the night before.

“How can you,” she purred back, “after just a few short hours?”

He didn’t mean it. He never did really. It was more of a reassuring vocal tick for when he felt he’d made a fool of himself in front of others. The words were meaningless and hollow with the ability to be thrown about in a careless manner. It was a prostitution of an unknown feeling and unease more than anything. All his friends had been on the receiving end of this tick, not just his conquests. Only one had responded. Enjolras.

It had been the only homosexual experience he’d ever had. It was like to be the only one he would have in his lifetime. The fateful words were mumbled on one of the rare occasions their golden leader had become drunk. No sooner had the words left Jehan’s lips his leader pulled him into a tender but passionate kiss.

No one noticed; they were in a corner. It was the reds of poppies in full bloom. It was the claustrophobic smell of too many heady roses. It was the feel of a breeze on a summer’s day. It was the fear and love of the dark. It was seeing the face of God. It was everything.

It was over too soon and accompanied by a muttered apology from Enjolras that blamed the alcohol. He retired to his rooms not long after. Jehan was left there, staring at the spot where his Apollonian wonder had been. It was a memory the poet replayed in his mind at many darkened moments. It held the true meaning to his words.

“I hate myself” meant the wondering of why the kiss had happened. Why would is not happen again? He was not good enough, undeserving. His mind to dark to bask in the light of the sun of his secret love.


End file.
